


If You Need a Fairytale Princess

by lesyeuxverts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tales, Happy Ending, Infidelity (but not in the main pairing), M/M, Matchmaking, brief mention of cross-dressing, epilogue-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no fairytale princesses, but there are fairytales all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Need a Fairytale Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for rit_globe in the hp_slashnotsmut exchange. Thanks to bewarethesmirk, gingertart50, and mindabbles for the beta.

Harry kicks at pebbles, puffing up the dust in little clouds, and Cinderella is late for the ball. He's heard the story a hundred times, the even and measured cadences of Ginny's voice, the miraculous transformation of char-girl into princess, the feast in the grand palace with goldfish in the fountains and champagne in crystal glasses, and it falls away now, her voice dropping into silence and nothing.  
  
Lily is asleep. Her head is pillowed on Ginny's lap, her hair spread out in a fan, and she's missed the ending again. Ginny shifts, moving her over to the pillows, and starts to pack up the tea and the sweet melon, the bread and the cheese. The wicker basket is full, and Harry lifts Lily, carrying her back into the house.  
  
Ginny's forgotten their anniversary, but Harry gives her pearls and she hums as she puts them on, sweeping her hair up into a knot and spraying perfume on her neck. He watches her dress, curves disappearing in silk and taffeta, and she kisses him on the cheek before she leaves.  
  
It's the gardening society meeting, and she tells him not to wait up, and Harry leans his forehead against the cold windowpane, watching her disappear down the lane.  
  
Lily will leave for school in two years. She's a heavy weight in his arms – Harry balances her against his chest as he makes his way upstairs, and puts her to bed before he settles down next to the fire, a pile of paperwork at his side and a Butterbeer in his hand.  
  
The beer goes untouched, but when he has finished with his work, he eats vanilla ice cream straight from the carton, scooping it up with crushed pineapple from a tin and letting the juice drip down his chin. He washes the spoon by hand and the clock chiming midnight drives him to his bed. He spells it warm, settling into the hollow where Ginny sleeps and curling his arms around a fluffy pillow.  
  
When she comes in from the gardening gala, he is awake. Propped up in the window seat, watching the sun stream through the red-kissed leaves and warming his hands with his morning cup of tea, he closes his eyes when the door opens. He says nothing.  
  
Ginny is reflected in the window, flushed and disheveled. Her hair has fallen down, and she passes him the string of pearls. "I know we said that we'd stay together for Lily's sake," she says. "I can't do this."  
  
He takes the pearls from her and listens to her go up the stairs, her high heels clicking and her perfume washing over him.  
  
"It's Neville, isn't it?" he asks when she stands before him again, a suitcase in her hands. Her hair is pulled up in a knot again, showing the curve of her pale neck, and her lipstick has been repaired. She doesn't tremble when she turns away from him.  
  
"It's really none of your business," she says. "I've never been enough for you, not once in all these years."  
  
He has no answer for her, and she has nothing more for him. "I'll be back for the rest of my things," she says.  
  
"I'll send them with Kreacher," he tells her.  
  
"I'll write to the boys to explain –"  
  
Harry points his wand at her heart, and keeps his voice even. "Stay away from my children."  
  
When she leaves, her heels click together. She holds her head high and stumbles over the doorstep, ruining her dramatic exit.  
  
\-----  
  
Winter works its way into autumn with icy fingers and frost on the windowpanes, and Lily demands more fairy tales. She turns to Harry with the bright eyes that hadn't questioned him, hadn't asked him for her mother or long explanations, and Harry holds her close, settling onto the sofa.  
  
She opens the book to Cinderella, but Harry pages further, past the fairy-tale princess and the glass slipper. He has put Ginny's pearls into a box, has sent all of her clothes and perfumes to her, has moved her shoes out of the closet to make way for his own, and there is no room left for fairy tale princesses.  
  
Little Red Riding Hood, with her wicker basket and her visit to her grandmother – tiny Thumbling and all his travels – Hansel and Gretel and the trails they leave in the forest, white pebbles shining on the dark ground, breadcrumbs that feed the hungry birds – Harry reads until his voice is thin and weary. Lily rests her head against his chest, and he strokes her hair until she falls asleep.  
  
Albus Severus, fixing gum drops onto the gingerbread men with tiny dabs of frosting, is the first of the children to ask for a new mother. "Auntie Fleur is single now," he tells Harry. "I think that she might like you."  
  
Harry helps him coordinate the gum drop buttons, mixing the green and red together. "It's Christmas time," he says. "It isn't always about Houses. You'll see, when you leave Hogwarts."  
  
"Does that mean that you don't like her?" Albus Severus asks. "Is there someone that you do like?"  
  
"Scorpius's mum is single," James says, leaning against the kitchen counter. He swipes one of the gingerbread men and licks the moustache of milk from his lips. "But maybe you don't want the sort of woman who leaves."  
  
Plastic bag rustling, Harry puts the gum drops away in a high cupboard. "Do you need a mother, is that it? If you want to see –"  
  
"No," James says, looking at Albus Severus with guilt and conspiracy fluttering around the fast motions of his hand, the shuttering of his eyelashes. After a long heartbeat, he looks to Harry for a response, his hands still and not shaking as he says, "but Lily goes off to school soon. You'll be all alone here then."  
  
"I'll be fine," Harry says. "I don't need – come, let's roast some chestnuts over the fire and read Christmas stories."  
  
\-----  
  
Hermione is more direct with her matchmaking – she asks Harry to lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, inviting a bevy of witches to join them. They simper and smile at his attention, and they wear long, elegant robes and smell of thick, cloying floral perfume. Harry says enough to be polite, and ducks away from Hermione when the meal is over. "I'll – I'll owl you," he says.  
  
"Potter." Draco Malfoy steps into Hermione's place, his son at his side and his face twisted into a half-smile. "I'll look forward to your owl, then."  
  
"Malfoy," Harry says. "I didn't – I don't –"  
  
The thick pottery bowls clank together as Draco pushes them away, clearing the table in front of him and slipping into Hermione's chair. "Of course you won't."  
  
Scorpius is sent off to look at brooms, and Draco calls for tea, steepling his fingers on the table and watching Harry. "Do you need something stronger?"  
  
Harry shakes his head and pushes the tea away when Draco adds a generous dollop of Firewhisky. Phantom flames dance on the surface of the tea, blue-hot and hazy. They frame Draco's face, and Harry squints at him, seeing a boyhood rival and a man who's been abandoned, the features and grimaces of the two blurring together.  
  
"I know you, Harry. You never let yourself love her, did you?" Draco asks. He sips his tea before the whisky settles and he breathes fire, leaning towards Harry with his wrists crossed and his lips parted.  
  
He has known Harry – they've always watched each other. Harry watches him now, learning the change that the hazy blue flames of Firewhisky make on his features, learning the dip in Draco's voice when he talks about love.  
  
"Women," Draco says.  
  
"James told me," Harry says. "I'm sorry about –"  
  
Draco pushes his chair back, and as he stands, he brushes the hair from Harry's forehead, his fingers lingering on the faded scar. "Owl me."  
  
He does not stumble as he walks, robes flowing around him in elegant lines, and Harry turns away from Draco's retreat, reaching out to touch his smoking teacup. He traces the rim with a fingertip, touching the place kissed by Draco's lips.  
  
\-----  
  
Lily's stories are set aside when the boys come home for the summer, broomsticks and toads in their hands. Harry unpacks their trunks, setting textbooks and scrolls in neat piles, sending rumpled robes to the laundry and smoothing out the year's hard-won wrinkles with a spell.  
  
The toads are set free in the field behind the cottage, lost in the tall grass before desperate hands can make a last grasp for them. Harry hangs the broomsticks in the shed, securing it with a handful of wards and giving the boys a strict lecture over dinner. There are secrets to be kept from their neighbors, and there will be plenty of chances to fly when the time is right.  
  
It's the longest day of the year and the last of the sunlight streams in through the big window, dust motes sparkling over their dinner and dancing across the children's faces. Harry reaches out to them – wiping away smudges of dirt, tweaking collars and ruffling hair until the boys duck away from him, reluctant smiles on their faces.  
  
Lily demands stories of Hogwarts, and the boys oblige her, spinning gold out of whole cloth. They sit around the table until the mashed potatoes congeal into a lumpy, solid mass, and Harry hurries them to the fireplace, conjuring bright illusions on the hearth.  
  
"It's like nothing else," James says, one arm around his sister's shoulders. "Be ready for the Sorting, though – they'll make you wrestle your House mascot to be accepted. Slytherin is the worst of all, because you wrestle the snake that swallows its own tail and cannot be defeated."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with Slytherin," Albus Severus says, and Harry smiles at him. His boys – their faces are flickering in the light of the illusions, electric blue and Floo-bright green dancing in the dusk that closes around him.  
  
The shadows age them. Grown and tired, with wrinkles fanned out at the corners of their eyes and the light creating strands of silver in their hair, Harry sees them as they will be old.  
  
The light changes, and they come back to him, and he is not alone. James finishes his story, lording it over his brother and sister with flair, stabbing his hand through the illusions coiled on the hearth and regaling them with tales of the hidden passageways at Hogwarts.  
  
Harry has closed all of the passageways. He has burned the map, and he has cast away the past. He gathers his children in his arms, one by one, carrying them up to bed, and the warm weight is no weight at all.  
  
On summer's coldest day, Albus Severus invites Scorpius to their house. Draco lingers at the door, watching him. Harry steps up to the door, his fingers curled around the handle, and Draco blinks and turns away.  
  
"You're welcome to stay for tea," Harry says. The scones are fresh and the water is hot, the table laid with the fresh flowers that the children have brought in from the garden, a rose set in front of every place. Harry reaches through the door, his fingers brushing against Draco's elbow and he flinches when Draco pulls out of his grasp.  
  
"It's too early for tea." Draco gives Scorpius a last smile and lets his robes swirl through the dust as he strides up the lane. "Send him back before the summer's over or before he eats you out of house or home, whichever's soonest."  
  
Scorpius darts out of the house, his feet scuffling up the dust into haphazard puffs. "I'll be home for dinner," he says, waving from the gate. "Don't worry if I'm a little late."  
  
Harry watches Draco's silhouette become swallowed up by wind and sun, the emptiness of the day sucked into itself when he Apparates away, twisting time and fate and space. Scorpius waves again, his fingers stretched out into the empty air and Harry fists his hands in his pockets, unwilling to reach out with him.  
  
\-----  
  
As if he's haunted, Harry sees Draco more often than his own shadow. Around the corner, passing by the Ministry, a flash of golden hair, the swish of silk robes disappearing down Diagon Alley – he's always there, and always out of reach.  
  
They bump elbows in Madame Malkin's, when Harry brings James and Albus Severus in for their new school robes. Blue-green peacocks in stiff brocade march across Draco's chest and down his arms, and Harry watches him loosen his collar as he brushes away a speck of dust.  
  
Scorpius stands at his side, solemn and polite, and Draco whisks him away for an ice cream just as Pansy breezes through the shop door, her gauzy robes fluttering behind her. She ignores both of them, her nose turned up in the air, and brushes away the assistant, demanding Madame Malkin for a consultation.  
  
Harry's eyes water at the spicy smell of her perfume, and as soon as the fittings are finished, he takes the neatly bundled packages, shrinking them to fit in his pocket. They leave without saying a word to Pansy, and James grabs Harry by the elbow.  
  
"You don't fancy her? I don't think so, either. You need someone prettier than her."  
  
"Scorpius says his mum was never around," Albus Severus says. "Dad'll want someone who's around, after we're all gone."  
  
Harry hurries them off to the bookstore and doesn't answer their questions. He isn't concerned with finding a way to fill his hours when his house is empty. One princess was enough for him.  
  
Albus Severus finds two tattered paperbacks for Lily, more fairy stories. James makes short work of finding their textbooks. Harry's pocket clinks with extra Galleons when he has paid for the lot and he steers the boys over to Florean's.  
  
Sour apple ice cream topped with caramel sauce and spiced honey ice cream and a double scoop of double-chocolate – Harry turns away from the glass counter, balancing the bowls, and worked his way through the maze of tables back to his children. He takes the long way around, avoiding Draco and Scorpius, but he catches Draco's lazy-lidded wink out of the corner of his eye.  
  
He sits with his back to Draco, the inconstant sunlight melting his ice cream and disappearing, raising goose flesh on his arms with waves of drifting shadows. James and Albus Severus kick each other under the table, and Harry keeps the peace.  
  
Scorpius comes over to speak with Albus Severus again, ignoring the glares that James shoots at him. When Draco comes to retrieve his son, he slings an arm around Harry's neck. With his thumb, he wipes a drop of chocolate ice cream from Harry's lip and smiles when Harry jumps.  
  
"You always were a messy eater, Potter," he says. Scorpius stares, and James kicks Harry under the table, the toe of his shoe sharp on Harry's shin.  
  
Harry's lip burns where Draco touched it, the cold of the ice cream chased away with the warmth of his flesh. He raises a hand to his mouth, staring at Draco.  
  
"Ask him to come home with us," James hisses in Harry's ear. "Don't you like him?"  
  
Harry runs a hand through his hair, looking up at Draco, and the silence stretches between them. James's whisper was too loud, and Draco must have heard it, and Harry looks down at his dripping ice cream. "It was nice to see you again," he says.  
  
"And you," Draco tells him. "Owl me at the Manor, if you like."  
  
Harry watches the light shine on Draco's silk robes as he walks through the Alley, and turns to James and Albus Severus when he's out of earshot. "You needn't play matchmaker for me," he tells them. "I'm content as I am."  
  
The boys have matched him with every witch they know – now James has turned to matching him with men. Harry reaches out to ruffle his hair, making it stand on end. "I'm content as I am," he says again, and they look at their shoes, dodging away from his hand.  
  
Hermione is waiting for them when they Floo home, scattering ashes and the first scuttling dry leaves of autumn across the hearth with their windy passage. Lily's fallen asleep in her lap, and she watches Harry brush away the soot.  
  
"I hope you brought some of that ice cream for me." With a conjured cloth, she wipes the stickiness from the boys' mouths, and when they run off, she turns to Harry. "Well? You must have seen Draco – nothing else puts that smile on your face. How did it go?"  
  
"It's nothing, Hermione, and it's none of your business." The memories of it are coiled deep within Harry, secrets like an inward spiral, a fragile snail-shell. The feeling of Draco's thumb on his lips and the wavering sunlight on his robes as he walked away – these are slipped into the snail-shell for safekeeping, pressed inside his breast.  
  
He takes Lily from her and turns, pausing in the golden puddle of sunlight at the base of the stairs. The smell of pine is wakened by the warmth, and the faded perfume is strongest here on the stairs, where Ginny liked to make her dramatic entrances.  
  
Lily has his mother's eyes, his mother's hair, his mother's fair skin – if Harry is his father recast, then Lily is the image of her namesake. Harry kisses her on the forehead, brushing her hair away from her face and pulling the covers up to her chin. Then he goes to unpack the boys' school supplies, setting them out in neat bundles ready to be jumbled together in their trunks. Summer is almost over.  
  
\-----  
  
Harry limps, stumbling to the Apparation point and gathering his will around himself. He's stopped by a hand on his elbows, and he hasn't the strength to turn. "Malfoy."  
  
"Have you seen the healers yet?"  
  
Draco is too close, the heat of his body meddling with the residual curse-flare, the snap and scorch of deflected Dark magic. Harry pushes him away without looking at him, careful not to touch his skin. "Not yet," he says.  
  
Pulling on his sleeve, Draco leans closer still. His breath is warm on Harry's cheek. "Don't be a fool," he says. "You're hurt."  
  
"Lily is waiting for me," Harry says, pulling away. As he Apparates home, he feels Draco catch his sleeve again, caught up in the whirlwind.  
  
He looks at Draco for the first time. They've landed near the garden, in the shadowy copse where Harry loosened the wards for Apparation. The evening's last flare of sunset breaks open the shadows, settling an orange-yellow glow around Draco's shoulders.  
  
"You could have been splinched, grabbing me like that," Harry says.  
  
"I was safe enough with you," Draco says. He clearly knows enough not to touch Harry, not to brush through the layers of lingering curses, but his hand rests in the air for a moment, outstretched.  
  
Harry says nothing – he takes a step backwards and waits to hear the clatter of Lily's feet down the back stairs, her rustling approach through the grove. She scolds him when she sees that he's been hurt, and he lets her lead him through the clinging, whippy branches and the darkness, back to the house and light.  
  
Draco follows in their wake. Like a conjured spirit, like a ghost, Harry feels him – warm and silent at his back, safe and steady. He turns back once, to see the dim light on Draco's face and the shadows at his feet – he does not stumble in the darkness. Lips pressed close together, he returns Harry's gaze and then reaches out to help him up the stairs.  
  
Ron is already there with a Healer's kit, and Hermione is sitting in the kitchen, her ankles hooked around the chair legs and her hands clenched, her fingers wrapped around the teapot. She glares at Harry.  
  
Kreacher has filled the house with the smell of roasting potatoes and cinnamon bread. He bends over the oven and turns to them, bowing. "I've just put the roast in the oven," he says. "It will be ready in an hour, masters."  
  
"Thanks, Kreacher."  
  
"Thank you, Kreacher," Hermione says, giving him a smile before she turns back to Harry. "Good, there'll be plenty of time for you to give me an explanation."  
  
"What explanation? I didn't dodge fast enough." She's not his mother, not his keeper – Harry pulls out the chair farthest from her and sits down at the kitchen table, his leg at a stiff angle in front of him.  
  
It is Draco and not Ron who opens the kit and kneels in front of him, rolling his trousers up to the knee.  
  
"You've no business risking yourself like that anymore," Hermione says, "not now when you have so much to live for."  
  
He has so much to live for, he's living for it. Harry pinches his lips shut and gives himself over to Draco's ministrations.  
  
Draco spreads the cool salve over his burns, and Harry closes his eyes, forcing the last of the curse energy away from his wound. The lights in the kitchen glow brighter when he has finished, leaping with the extra energy that leaked into the air, escaped from the spells.  
  
"He doesn't need a lecture, Hermione," Ron says, pulling out another chair and Summoning a Butterbeer. "Let a man come home to some peace and quiet."  
  
There are letters from James and Albus Severus tucked in Harry's breast pocket. He takes off his outer robes, feeling the heat rise to his face as Draco watches him, and pats his pocket with two fingers to hear the crinkle of the parchment.  
  
Ron crosses the room to go to Hermione, wrapping his arms around his waist. With his fingers, he smoothes the frown away from her lips. "We're none of us hurt, love. Don't fret about it."  
  
"You should fret about it." She jabs the air with her Butterbeer, condensation dripping down to pool on the table. The blunt shadows flicker over the dark wood, dancing in the light, and she scowls. "I don't know why you aren't."  
  
"Next week, it will be my turn to lecture you," Ron said, kissing her cheek. "Over spending too much time at the office or the hazards of paper-cuts – whatever it is, Hermione, we all do our duty."  
  
Turning away from their argument, Harry watches Draco, who's left hovering at the edge of the kitchen. Even a stranger in a strange house, he's self-assured, leaning against the wall and watching them with a smirk teasing his lips into a smooth, elegant curve. Rising, Harry goes to him.  
  
"Stay for dinner with us?" he asks.  
  
Draco's gaze flickers down to Harry's knee, and he shakes his head. "If you're well, then I'll be off. I won't impose on your household."  
  
"It's no –"  
  
Brushing a hand across Harry's shoulder, Draco leans in toward him and puffs a breath of warm air on Harry's neck. "Another time, perhaps," he says. "Do learn how to duck if you're going to continue as an Auror, Potter."  
  
Harry's skin feels too tight when Draco leaves, and he is light, as if his bones were bird-hollow and fragile. He turns away from Hermione's knowing smile and back to his butterbeer, drawing patterns with the condensation that has leaked onto the table. All of the patterns form the loopy, rounded shape of dragon's scales, and Harry rubs them out with the palm of his hand.  
  
\-----  
  
When James and Albus Severus are home for the summer, Lily insists on a picnic in the grove behind the house. She's Little Red Riding-Hood, having already claimed a spell from Hermione to change her black cloak for a crimson one. She packs a basket full of flowers and waits for Harry to provide the food.  
  
"Is this what you would give your grandmother to eat?" Harry asks, running a hand over her hair to smooth it flat.  
  
"If you would marry again, we would have a grandmother to visit," James says. "Then you won't be alone in the autumn."  
  
Harry kneels in front of him, putting a hand on each shoulder. "I know you're worried," he tells James, "but you needn't be. I'm fine, and all of this matchmaking – you needn't do it. I'm fine."  
  
Standing, he takes the picnic basket that Kreacher had packed, and says, "If you want to visit your grandmother, we can go see Molly next week. I'm sure she'd be delighted to see you again."  
  
Albus Severus shakes his head. "It isn't that. It's – Dad, you shouldn't be alone."  
  
"I have you," Harry tells him, ruffling his hair. "All three of you – you're enough for me. Now, who wants a story?"  
  
Lily climbs into his lap, her red cloak billowing, and Harry puts his arms around her. Little Red Riding Hood is lost in the forest, unspeakable dangers in the darkness around her, and her grandmother's cottage seems unattainable.  
  
"That isn't how the story goes," Lily tells him, putting a finger to his lips.  
  
Harry closes his eyes. There have been other stories, other fairy tales, with darker endings and darker deeds – he was once in a fairy tale, lost in a struggle over the last relic of dark deeds, and the darkness has no claim over him now. He takes up the story again, seeing Little Red Riding Hood safe to her grandmother's cottage.  
  
"Cinderella," Lily demands when he is done, and James grabs her out of Harry's lap, swinging her in the air.  
  
"Enough," he says. "Poppet, let's eat. Let's make our own story – three children, in the grove with their father, with the biggest, best picnic basket in the whole wide world –"  
  
Kreacher has filled the basket with good things, has spelled the tea to stay warm and the milk to stay cool. Harry pours for all of them, and James and Albus Severus set out the bread and cheese, the meat pies and the sweet crisp grapes. There is no story like this – no story that has the sun filtered through rustling leaves, no story that has the tang of sharp cheese and the sweet, strong tea that Harry loves best. There is no fairy story that has his children safe with him, his happily ever after gathered close around him.  
  
\-----  
  
Lily leaves for school, and Harry is left with an empty house. Nonetheless, his children fill it with owl-song and tattered corners of parchments, torn off from assignments and covered with the details of their days. Harry smoothes out the bits of parchment and stacks them on his desk, weighting them down with a snow-globe that holds a miniature replica of Hogwarts.  
  
With a tap of his wand and a muttered spell, the snow-globe comes to life – it whirrs with the magic of the school, the grinding sounds of the moving staircases and the whoosh of fliers over the Quidditch pitch. Hagrid chops wood in the yard outside his hut, and Fawkes darts into an open window. The enchantment is tiny enough for Harry to cup in his hand and perfect enough for him to see the faces of the school-children, turned up to catch the first snowflakes.  
  
The post owls peck his hand when Harry spends too much time staring at the fairy castle, and he feeds them the toast left from breakfast.  
  
He grows roses around the cottage, training them to climb up the trellises and reach toward the sunlight. With a spark of magic flowing through their stems, they flourish even as winter draws near – their petals change to match the seasons, shading from the deepest summer-gold through all the fires of autumn and then to the palest blue, frost-touched and ready for the first day of winter.  
  
In every letter, James offers Harry a new wife – his classmates' parents, his professors, the witches he sees in the Hogsmeade shops. Harry gives him no answer.  
  
He does not find the cottage empty, does not find the hours weighing on him in the evenings while he watches the fire, warming his feet and letting his tea steep until it is bitter. He does not find himself dreaming of fairy-tale princesses with rose-leaf complexions and auburn hair – he does not long for Ginny, with her silks and perfumes and soft curves.  
  
The roses turn from ice-blue to snow-white, and the winds build up around the cottage until Harry strengthens the wards. The children will be coming home for the holidays, and he makes the cottage ready for them.  
  
He meets Draco when he ventures out to Diagon Alley for marzipan and chestnuts. They stop under a holly branch that wobbles on its precarious perch on the street lantern, and Draco puts a hand on Harry's arm.  
  
"I've been waiting for your owl," Draco says, and Harry drops his packages. He fumbles in the snow for them, his fingers already numb, and Draco catches him, taking Harry's wind-burned hands between his gloved ones. "Let's go to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint, shall we?"  
  
Draco pulls Harry there, one hand warm on his elbow, and neither of them pause in the doorway or look up at the mistletoe.  
  
The snow has left wet, irregular patches on Draco's shoulders, darkening his silver robes to wrought-iron black. Harry helps him brush the snow away, and feels his cheeks heat from the fire when Draco stands behind him, pulling his chair out and helping him sit.  
  
Tom brings them pints of bitter without being asked, and Draco reaches across the table to take Harry's hand. He brushes his thumb across Harry's knuckles.  
  
"We're alike, you and I," he says. "We always have been."  
  
"That's why –"  
  
"We always have been alike," Draco repeats. He circles each knuckle and moves his fingers higher, sketching a swirling, looping pattern across the back of Harry's hand. Like brocade or paisley, fine stitchery on Harry's skin – Draco pays attention to each detail, each line of the pattern, and blood rushes to Harry's hand, tingling.  
  
"You've still never owled me," Draco says. "After all these years, after all the war and the peace between us, you won't accept my olive branch. Why is that?"  
  
"I didn't –" Harry's breath is caught in his throat, his chest is tight, and he can't finish a sentence. He raises his free hand to Draco's face, stroking cheekbone and jaw, feeling the faint silk of his stubble. "I wanted –"  
  
"-you," Draco says. "I always wanted you."  
  
Tom bustles over with another round of drinks, the ale slopping over onto the table and foaming on the age-darkened, battered wood. With that perfect instinct that he has, he's come without prompting, come to take care of Harry again as always, come to break the awkward silence. "Here you are then," he says.  
  
Draco gives him a few Galleons and a smile. "That'll be all then, thanks."  
  
Harry pulls his hand from Draco's, flinching at the knowing look that Tom gives them. "I have to go."  
  
He snatches up his cloak and hurries to the door – Draco follows him out into the snow, catching his elbow. "Potter, are you going to run away from this?"  
  
Watching Harry, he lets his hand drop. Snowflakes rim his eyelashes, white on gold, and he blinks and takes a step closer. In a low voice, he asks, "Will you owl me, Harry? I won't ask again."  
  
Before he gathers his breath, before he pulls the magic around him and loses himself in the pull and whirlwind of Apparition, Harry reaches out to frame Draco's face with both hands, rubbing his thumb across Draco's lips. "I will," he says before he goes.  
  
\-----  
  
Draco is there before the ink has dried on the parchment, before the owl has spread its feathers for flight. He reaches for Harry, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his neck, stroking the veins there and pressing against his pulse before tilting his chin up. "All right?" Draco asks.  
  
"Yes," Harry says. He hands the parchment to Draco, the scroll stiff between them. "I was going to owl you."  
  
"I saw the Prophet."  
  
The world has seen the Prophet. Owls and Howlers and Floo calls have besieged him throughout the morning, and Harry has shut the wards tight. He left them open for Draco. He shut out the rest of the world.  
  
 _Fairytale Princess_ , is all across the front page in blood-red letters an inch high, with smaller letters scrolling beneath the bold headline: _The Former Mrs. Harry Potter wed again, finds perfect happiness with her second husband_. Harry takes the paper, balling his hand into a fist. "There are no fairytale princesses," he says.  
  
Draco kneels in front of him, parting Harry's knees and settling between his legs. He traces the fine lines that have gathered around the corners of Harry's eyes, remnants of the laughs and frowns that he had shared with Ginny. "There are fairytales all the same. You know that better than anyone."  
  
Catching Draco's hand in his own, Harry turns it over to trace the lines of his palm. He presses a kiss to the crease between wrist and hand, his lips lingering on the skin there. "We shared a fairytale once – we both won the same prize."  
  
This is the hand that won the Elder Wand. This is the hand that lost to Harry, this is the hand that surrendered its prize. This is Draco's hand. Harry bends his head over it, tracing the lines and veins again, this time with his tongue. He presses a kiss to the center of the palm and looks up at Draco, his heartbeat rattling through his veins.  
  
"Is this all right?"  
  
Draco moves closer and closer, until they share one breath, warm and sweet. "Harry, you fool. I've been trying to get you to do this for years."  
  
The space between them is warm and vibrant, crackling with magic and tension. It's the smallest space that has been held between them through all of these years, and Harry closes his eyes, moving to bridge the gap.  
  
Their lips brush together with the lightest pressure, a hesitant and careful kiss. It's no more than a second, a heartbeat long – it's eternity, it's happily ever after. Opening his eyes, Harry mirrors Draco's smile.  
  
Draco is quicksilver and hot, gathering Harry into his arms and blowing puffs of breath across his skin. He is like a fish made fossil, pressed and preserved from century to century – the elegant curve of his ribs, the perfect line of his spine. He fits into Harry's arms as though he belongs there, settling himself into Harry's lap and leaning against his chest. "I have a corset and silver shoes," he says, "if you need a fairytale princess."  
  
"I need you."  
  
"You always have." Draco traces the line of Harry's lips with an elegant finger and leans in to look in Harry's eyes, resting their foreheads together. "You just didn't know it, before."  
  
Draco in a corset, in a sweeping ball gown with silver shoes, his hair pinned up and his lashes lowered down to cast mascaraed shadows on his cheeks – Harry swallows, holding him closer. "Will you be my fairytale princess? Will you go to the ball, dance with me and then leave me?"  
  
Harry feels Draco's understanding in the press of his lips against Harry's neck, the puffs of dry breath on Harry's skin, the trembling of his fingers on Harry's spine. "I wouldn't. I wouldn't do that to you."  
  
"Good." Harry holds Draco close and listens to the echo of his heartbeat, the strong dark song of the blood filling his veins and the light rush of air through his lungs – he's done with princesses, finished with fairytales, and this is his happy ending.


End file.
